My love is ridiculous, like
delicate hands on a blacksmith;
it loves its desires, not whom is desired.
It’s a kiln with no ashes, no smoldering embers—
an ash pit on the moon,
unclouded and veiled in a sickle,
a reapers wrench.
It’s a phantom ache where
open wounds fount blood.
yet dense as osmium—
it’s unfillable, unfeelable.
My love’s ridiculous,
it broods like a sun,
long locked in a dim yellow room,
seldom coming out—
so it stops the storm only when it suits her.
My love’s ridiculous, this old sagged thing
that won’t let me love as I want;
always casting its melancholy nets
across the oceans of my revel.
My love’s ridiculous, its the smooth buttered skin
of a leper, I don’t want to touch it.